Definition
by lovablegeek
Summary: Mark's defined himself a lot of different ways through his life, but maybe he was wrong all along. [One shot]


Mark always thought that if anyone defined who he was, it was his family, though not in the way most people would think, hearing that. He wasn't _like_ them, exactly – more than he wanted to be everything they _weren't_, everything they didn't want him to be. His mother worried, his father disapproved, his sister was just annoyed, and there was some sort of satisfaction in being everything they never expected him to be.

Mark watched the phone as it rang, counting silently one, two, three rings, and then the little red light on the answering machine came on. "Mark, honey, it's Mom. I don't know where you are, but I just called to–"

"Are you going to pick that up?" Benny asked, glancing from the machine to Mark and back, one eyebrow raised.

Mark just snorted and leaned back in his chair, absentmindedly pushing his glasses a little higher up on his nose. "Yeah, sure. Because I really want to spend an hour talking about how I'm not safe here, what I ate for breakfast every day for the past week, and whether I have clean underwear."

Benny rolled his eyes. "You're actually an adult now, you know – legally, at least. You ought to stop hiding from your mother."

"Yeah, well..." Mark frowned, and then just glared at him. "Shut up."

* * *

Roger was sprawled on his stomach on the floor, chin resting on folded arms, half-propped up on a pillow, staring intently at the television. It was turned down so low that Mark couldn't hear it across the room. But he wasn't particularly interested in watching whatever the hell Roger was so absorbed in – watching Roger was actually more appealing. He looked like a little kid, lying in front of the TV and watching Saturday morning cartoons. He was probably just as bored out of his mind as Mark was, but... at least he was occupying himself by watching TV rather than making a sport of annoying Benny, his usual favorite means of fixing boredom.

After a moment, he stood and walked over to sit on the floor beside Roger. "What're we watching?"

"That... what's it called? The movie with Captain... Van Tramp."

"Von Trapp."

Roger blinked and propped himself up on his elbow to look at Mark. "What?"

"Captain Von Trapp. Not Van Tramp."

Roger frowned at him. "Why do you even _know_ that?"

"Why are you even _watching_ this?"

"We have no cable! This is the only thing that's on!"

The two of them watched each other for a minute or two, and then Mark said firmly, "The Sound of Music. The movie you're watching is The Sound of Music, dumbass."

Roger watched Mark quietly for a moment longer, then nodded curtly, resting his chin on his arms once more. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

* * *

For a while, it was Maureen who defined who Mark was. Whatever Maureen wanted, Mark did, because it was so much easier than arguing or saying no, and he _did_ love her. He knew she loved him, no matter what anyone else said. Benny thought she was going to break his heart, Roger muttered and shot her dark looks whenever he thought she wasn't looking, Collins just pretended to ignore it, and April kept her concern unspoken but not hidden. Maureen had Mark's heart wrapped around her finger, he knew it, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He decided it was okay, because he loved her, because she wouldn't hurt him, he was sure of that.

"Hey, Pookie!" she chirped brightly, and slid onto his lap, and Mark couldn't stop a smile from breaking out across his face.

"Hey," he said, his arms slipping around her, settling comfortably around her waist in a way that feels so perfectly natural. "Where've you been? I came home and there wasn't a note or anything..."

"I was just out with some friends, it's no big deal..." she says, a bit of a pout on her lips, and Mark remembers he's not ever supposed to question Maureen's activities, just accept them. And before he can question any more, she kisses him warmly, her tongue in his mouth, her fingertips trailing down his chest, playful half-teasing. Mark closes his eyes and leans into the kiss, and it feels like being caught in an undertow, swept up in Maureen's kiss and smell and touch, and he can't tell if he's drowning in it or swimming and it doesn't matter which, he supposes, because he comes up gasping for breath either way.

* * *

Mark fiddled with the camera he held on his lap, absentmindedly tapping his fingers on it as he stared across the room at the answering machine, trying to ignore Roger sitting on the table behind him. For some reason he would rather Roger weren't listening to the message, because every single time Mark's mother left him a message, there was at least one thing embarrassing she found to say... Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time he'd be exempt from that, just _once_...

"Cindy and the kids are here, send their love... Oh, I hope you like the hotplate!"

Mark felt Roger nudge his back with his guitar, and Mark turned around to frown at him, one eyebrow raised, expression questioning.

"What hotplate?" Roger mouthed, looking quizzical, and Mark smiled a little and shook his head.

"Hell if I know," he answered. He supposed it wouldn't do much good even if they did get a hotplate, given that they'd have nothing to do with it, they couldn't afford anything resembling food...

Mark fell silent to turn his attention back to his mother on the answering machine – two seconds later, he wished he'd just kept talking and ignored it, and maybe Roger wouldn't have noticed...

"Oh, and Mark, we're sorry to hear that Maureen dumped you." Mark stared at the answering machine in momentary shock, doing his level best to ignore Roger, he didn't even want to_ know _what Roger was going to say about it, because he never could shut up whenever anyone brought up Maureen. "I say c'est la vie. So let her be a lesbian – there are other fishies in the sea. Love Mom!"

Shock turned to absolute horror, and he dropped his head into his hands, trying to ignore Roger as he laughed and patted Mark on the back, and God this was not happening... He shoved himself off the table and whirled around, lifting the camera to point it at Roger. If he just... pretended that little interruption hadn't happened, maybe Roger wouldn't comment on it. "Tell the folks at home what you're doing, Roger!"

* * *

Mark defined himself, for the longest time, by being alone. Since Maureen left, since Roger met Mimi and everything, and Roger had been mostly living in Mimi's apartment, and Mark was left in the loft alone, thinking about how eerily quiet it is, thinking about how it hadn't been this empty since he first moved in with Benny and Roger and Collins. It wasn't just in the loft, it was everywhere he went, and no matter who was around him, no matter what they were doing or how much he was enjoying himself, he was always _outside_, he was always_ watching _life happen. It didn't feel, particularly, like he was living life for himself, and the life he saw through his camera was a poor sort of substitute.

And after that fight with Roger after Angel's funeral, after Roger took off for Santa Fe and Mimi disappeared, he was well and truly alone, and he buried himself even more in his work, wandering the city on his own, finding things to shoot, finding something to connect with and always falling just short. He sat in the loft, cutting film and piecing it together into something of a story, but the only thing he could see in that story half the time was the aching emptiness, the space where he ought to be in his friend's lives, the space he'd stepped out of or been shoved out of, he didn't know which, but it hurt, more than he'd let himself admit.

But that was what he was, the outsider, the one always _watching_, silent witness to the lives and slow deaths of his friends. You looked at the film, and you couldn't even tell he existed. It seemed to fit, that way.

* * *

It felt better with Roger back in the loft again. It felt like something that had been lost had fallen back into place, it felt warm and safe and something like home once more, when it hadn't for the longest time. Even when neither of them said anything, when they were both silent, when they were both in separate rooms, there was a sense of completeness there could only be when Roger was home.

Mark wasn't particularly paying attention to Roger as he moved around the loft – he was probably looking for something to eat, making coffee, searching for some piece of paper with lyrics scribbled on it that he'd misplaced, something like that. It didn't matter what he was doing, just as long as he was there, and so Mark kept his attention on the film he was cutting, because he was so close to finishing it, and something in the back of his mind kept telling him he needed to finish this soon, he needed to finish this before Christmas Eve, before it all swung full circle.

For some reason, it didn't even surprise him when Roger walked up behind him and rested his chin on the top of Mark's head, peering at the film he was working on. "Hey," he said softly, without even moving – and Roger didn't move, apparently comfortable leaning over Mark the way he was, with his chin on Mark's head.

"Hey. What're you working on?"

"My film, dumbass," Mark answered with a smile. Maybe, he thought, he'd been looking at it wrong all along. Maybe his definition had been right here in front of him the entire time.


End file.
